Although not the mess that "Dirt" is, the series is conceptually problematic, and seemingly ill-equipped to go the episodic distance.

[Mick and Beth's] across-the-decades bond, however, doesn't compensate for how pedestrian the initial story is -- playing like a conventional detective show, with Mick showcasing his otherworldly powers (strong, and very, very fast) only during a passable action sequence in the final act.

Jezebel James might have fared better shaped into an hourlong dramedy, instead of being shoehorned into a lightly serialized sitcom format that plays poorly to her strengths as a writer.

The show feels completely derivative, it's wholly unconvincing that the central quartet would hang out together, and I'm frankly still fuzzy (mostly because after 10 minutes it's difficult to give a damn) on what connects them beyond the not-that-jarring status of being single again in their 30s and, well, "Seinfeld" did it.

Hit-miss in the way improv almost invariably is, the show feels flabby at an hour.

Even a hard-hearted critic would find it difficult not to coo at the lion cub that wanders onto the grounds, but the series can deliver only so many Animal Planet moments before leaving auds to grapple with its trite elements and annoying characters.

This is decidedly slim and rarely funny fare.

Watching the show brings to mind attending the wedding of someone you barely know or don't really like: Sure, it would be better if everything went well, but after awhile, all you really want is for it to be over so you can get out of there.

Even in this sporty new vehicle the old codger looks a little unsteady on his pins--lacking the requisite wit, excitement or sense of adventure to survive for long in this dimension, much less the next.

The result is tonally uneven, too-rarely funny and rehashes material that isn't as relatable as it should be to the average parent.

The show is as directionless as its stars.

Heavily produced, the series has some ratings potential by CW's chicken-feed standards but doesn't feel distinctive or titillating enough to keep 'em down on the farm.

Actually, this comedy-reality concept is rather quaint.

Even with the promise of a Ferrell cameo in future episodes, it's a tired premise--a more profane version of the kind of low-swinging sitcom that could easily have wound up on TBS.

Whatever lingering debt the show owes to its original template has also resulted in some awkward elements, including occasional internal monologues by both title players that are as empty, banal and unfunny as when they're actually talking.

Dushku does wonderful things to a tank top, but her grasp of this vague, personality-changing character is a bit of a muddle. What's left, then, is a series with a hollow center that doesn't initially make you care about its mentally malleable protagonist.

Her latest showcase suffers from an increasingly common reality-TV deficiency: It's too staged to be convincing, and too unscripted to be reliably funny.

This series could still do some reasonable ratings by summer standards, though those viewers that do sit will have very little reason to stay; still, the shame is that the producers took what could have been an amusing lark and initially sucked most of the life out of it by following the same-old unscripted-competition script so closely.

Unfortunately, there's not a test tube's worth of difference between this and CBS' other new drama, "The Mentalist" (that one features an advisor to the California Bureau of Investigation)--or the Eye net's procedural dramas in general.

Admittedly, the poetic joys of hairstyling elude me, but even if Coffey's all that, the new agey platitudes ("She feels this business") grow tedious rather quickly, and the solutions are predictably simplistic.

Actually, it's really just more of a bore (bore ... bore).

A&E bet heavily on "The Sopranos" reruns to brand the channel, but its grit and blue language notwithstanding, The Cleaner doesn't represent the kind of hour destined to build on that foundation.

"I don't want it to end, but it did," the host gushes at the hour's close. Even for those who enjoy Mandel's puerile brand of comedy, that qualifies as a clear case of Howie overdoing it.

TV Land has made a concerted push to achieve a younger profile with original reality shows, but The Cougar manages to feel neither original nor real.

All told, it's the most familiar of reality concepts with all the usual tricks--barely deviating from established programs, patterned after a movie ("Monster-in-Law," anyone?) and relying upon a pithy name to spare the marketing guys from working too hard selling it.

A show so fastidiously old-fashioned as to feel assembled from pieces of '70s family sitcoms.

Little Britain's laughs are as puny as its ambitions.

Despite some nebulous personal baggage involving a mysterious woman from his past, the character's simply not interesting enough to carry the show virtually alone.

The main problem with NYC Prep is that the show never gets better than its title--lacking the sociological insight to score as a documentary or the hyper-real situations and "characters" that would make it sizzle as a soap.

The Halmi factory has a certain genius for packaging these kind of projects, built around terse titles and big concepts. If only they put as much effort into producing them, The Storm might amount to more than another soggy tempest in a teapot.

Even nightvision lenses and up-the-nose video, however, can't create a real sense of jeopardy until the final challenge, when two finalists are "buried alive." At least that's semi-interesting, though until then 13 is pretty much a snooze--more scatter-brained than scary.

To be fair, the program does improve marginally after the premiere, but by then the bar's set so low a three-legged horse could clear it.

While it's nice that Spike is seeking to widen its narrow unscripted profile, by hewing so closely to its formula, the net has simply made this too-blue Mountain into a comedic molehill.

The ingredients in this old-fashioned remedy have a modest shot at working, but if the network wants to find a critic who'll deem such a mundane operation golden, it'll have to seek a second opinion.

While Hank doesn't promise to add much cachet to those Hall of Fame credentials, this is a show transparently designed for paychecks, not posterity.

The program does a poor job of capturing exactly what distinguishes Cutrone's form of publicity, other than kissing the asses of designers and hobnobbing with Ashley Dupre.

Just think of There Goes the Neighborhood as another brick in the (reality-competition) wall--one that's frankly becoming a bit of an eyesore.

These situations are undeniably emotional, and the Stegners' situation is certainly relatable. Yet that very authenticity is what makes Breakthrough aggravating--presenting, as it does, serious hardships before addressing them with the depth of a Hallmark card.

There's potential in a show devoted to Average Joes achieving their dreams, but even with "Top Chef" currently in the midst of one of its weaker seasons, there's no reason to sample what Masterchef is serving.

These latest entries--"The Hills" times two, on the ground and at 30,000 feet--manage to make glamorous settings appear wan through the sheer banality of those occupying them.

While Wootton's irreverent antics are sporadically funny enough to win him a cult following, the memorable moments ultimately prove too few and far between.

It's a particularly galling group--one that, alas, will probably reward Bravo's misdemeanors in aiding and abetting this sorry exercise.

Melissa & Joey, by contrast, represents a decided lurch back toward the bland old days, grasping at "TGIF's" ostensible niche while offering precious little for which to be thankful.

The documentary device is often stifling to and distracting from the drama, and using labels as shorthand to introduce the characters makes them feel even more one-dimensional--a device that's acceptable in reality TV, perhaps, but potentially fatal to scripted fare.

Told in flashback that implies things have gone terribly, terribly wrong, the ensuing gags are either lame or (for a U.S. audience, anyway) or culturally confusing--frequently falling back on blue language in lieu of being genuinely clever. A more fundamental problem lies with Cross, whose mixture of wide-eyed innocent/ugly American/myopic moron has no nuance to engender even a trace of sympathy for his plight.

All of Jimmy Smits' considerable charisma can't come close to making a convincing case for Outlaw, a jaw-droppingly simple-minded legal procedural that's improbable on most every level.

Soboroff seems positively amazed in the premiere when he lands an interview with California Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger, asking who and what was responsible for the school's dilapidated condition. The not-exactly-press-shy governor rattled off a laundry list of factors: "Labor, special interests, a lack of parent participation, a lack of funding. Clearly, I would say government." Hey, his term's almost up. Let's give him a show. Maybe that will at least have more substance to it.

All Class ought to do is make CMT viewers pine for more "Hee Haw" reruns.

Portlandia, a vanity project from "Saturday Night Live's" Fred Armisen that plays like an awful night at the Groundlings, or worse, a collection of the most uninspired sketches from "SNL's" final half-hour.

If "Hot in Cleveland" demonstrated there's life in comfort-food comedy beyond the major networks, Retired reminds us that while it's possible to triumph in TV with reheated concepts, poor execution remains the surest way to get unceremoniously put out to pasture.

All told, the whole thing plays like a bad telenovela filtered through a "History for Dummies" text.

A cartoon version of pregnancy and modern-day Marie Antoinettes, the program's exaggerated view of expectant moms bloated by their sense of entitlement should still resonate, sitcom-style, with a female audience, while making a pretty strong case for higher tax rates, if not outright class warfare.

Maybe central casting is wearing thin, but aside from being beautiful (naturally), there's not a personality in the bunch more interesting than the crocodiles, ants or bats on display.

To underscore her hypocrisy in this heavily staged exercise--which features voiceover narration that makes any "unscripted" label a misnomer--Hilton simultaneously complains about a lack of privacy and allows a camera crew to watch her bathe.

It's not a particularly inspired serial, replete with tired situations, stiff dialogue and male characters possessing less dimension than those populating "Sex and the City," if that's possible.

This CW show is so silly and lightweight it might possess unexpected appeal for its sheer camp factor, as well as the opportunity to see the South depicted as a place as exotic as the dark side of the moon.

Mostly, it's an excuse to watch Allen occupy an Archie Bunker-like role 20 years after he began raking in cash for ABC. Good luck catching lightning in a bottle twice.

The series lacks the sort of connective tissue that provides at least a modicum of narrative coherence to the "Real Housewives" franchise, or any number of programs that have beaten Dolls to the punch.

With most of the near-laughs coming from the supporting players, Hornsby (also a producer on "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia") and Dillon are reduced to set-ups and groaning rim shots.

Clearly, responsible parents will put the kids to bed early, unless they want to brave exposing their offspring to an uninspired if harmless piece of (bleep).

As constructed by writer John Enbom ("Party Down") and director Todd Holland, Free Agents leaves its leads adrift with scarcely a genuine moment to be found, and other than Head, not a single supporting character worth mentioning.

It's an awfully thin construct, and either too FX in its tawdriness or, alternately, not HBO enough in its execution.

It's such a tepid effort it's almost a shame to waste harsh adjectives on it.

That foundation [of reality-based underpinnings], however, pretty much crumbles amid the broad tone, constant squabbling and improbabilities.

Another King production that begins with glimmers of promise and winds up being bad to the Bones.

As premises (and ratings metaphors) go, the disappearing floor isn't the only part of this cheesy exercise with several holes in it.

This series aims so low, to paraphrase another artifact from the "Bosom Buddies" era, it could practically play handball against the curb.

The incomplete nature of the story (based on a book by Joseph Hosey) doubtless handicapped the filmmakers, but even so, the movie withers due to its inability to get under Peterson's skin.

As usual, Rhimes' workplace characters talk very fast, but the manic visual style can't obscure a series flawed on most every level.

Pauly's home-state hangers-on simply aren't a very interesting bunch.

[The show] awkwardly winds up immersed in the "drama" of mid-teenage girls being showcased and married off, which can't help but feel creepy.

Multiple battles ensue, most of them pretty tepid, as this Treasure Island kills more time than pirates.

The cast is cheerful enough--and a lot younger than Tom Selleck, Ted Danson and Steve Guttenberg--but there's really not much to be done with a concept this stale, or characters this thinly defined.

It's a skeletal construct, all right, but there's nothing lovely about it.

Every beat of the new show is so stale and familiar the audience can practically sing along to the punchlines--which, perhaps, is the point.

Disturbingly condescending and almost irresistibly cheeky.

While the paper-thin revival might benefit from the presold title, its approach sidesteps any such dilemma--and as constructed, should be hard-pressed to get under viewers' skin.

It's somewhat offbeat, yes, but all played at such a cartoonish level as to feel like a distant throwback, a la "My Favorite Martian" or "I Dream of Jeannie," since there's no one akin to Mork or ALF to enliven the festivities.

In terms of the bar on reality-TV standards, though, Amish Mafia, in particular, effortlessly limbos beneath it.

A taxidermy version of "Top Chef," so overblown it could only work as parody.

The celebrity-produced effort plays like an excuse to assemble marquee talent in short films, but not in a way that yields much coherence or resonance.

There’s scant evidence the swimming star can keep this sort of vehicle afloat on his personality, and the show’s a little too G-rated in the early going (unless one counts tight Speedos) to qualify as a guilty pleasure.

Feels more like a bland swig of plasma than the bloody romp that it ought to be.

Messy at best, the two-episode premiere suffers from wildly uneven performances, beginning with Dennis Hopper at his manic worst.

This basically feels like the fifth best cop drama of the 1978 TV season.

The show basically approximates that commercial where a young guy is working an office job and his dorky friends keep bugging him, as a generic twentysomething dude seeks to prove he can straddle adult obligations and youthful pastimes by partying all night and working all day. Sorry, but been there, drank that.

An uninspired collection of cliches, sex jokes and uninvolving characters.

Everyone appears far too prepared to play a part, and any self-realization comes far too fast without any real transformation. Either producers picked a bunch of duds to participate or else the editing team was so hopped up on caffeine they cut out the juicy parts.

"The Game" feels pretty artificial.

There's so little substance to it.

Perhaps the intrigue worked better on paper, but squeezed into 88 minutes or so, it's almost comical how everyone keeps conspiring to bring the damn plane down after blasting a hole in it the size of a Hummer.

Starring a miscast Mira Sorvino, "Human Trafficking" bludgeons its point home for nearly four hours, and then closes with an honest-to-God speech to ensure that nobody missed it.

Mostly an excuse for coeds to strip down to their underwear.

The holiday kitchen at Hallmark has served up an unusually bland dish, with a script flatter than one of the company's cards.

The racing around adds up to a chaotic bore without a hint of originality, as well as the most confusing set of rules for a reality show since the first season of "The Mole."

Proving it's possible to construct an entire series out of strung-together medical-show cliches, "Saved" races along a too-familiar path littered with "ER"-style crises.

At almost every level, "American Inventor" is over-produced.

"10 Items or Less" labors too hard at being clever and occasionally teeters into shrill mode where a half-dozen characters are all yelling at each other simultaneously.

Somewhere trapped inside this shrill, irritating comedy is a better show that emerges only in fleeting glimpses, amid the manic tone and Catskills-comic humor.

Somewhat more ambitious [than "Fashion House"] but equally hackneyed.

If there's a silver lining, "Talkshow" will likely make its often-overlooked lead-in, "Mad TV," resemble "Your Show of Shows."

Carpoolers is shockingly dull and unfunny with Fred Goss shoehorned in an uninspiring role.

An almost comically vacuous exercise.

In terms of concocting drama, the characters and situations don't strike sharply enough to break the skin, much less stir the heart.

So while you might chuckle guiltily at the sight of a Peruvian worker (Frank Merino) being strapped underneath a car to conduct an "undercarriage road test," after that, there are precious few laughs to interrupt the ride.

Setting the controversy aside, the show is hopelessly derivative, shamelessly manipulative and in narrative terms, a bit of a mess.

The "Knight Rider" revival movie set the bar low in terms of expectations, and damned if the series premiere still doesn't go skidding under it. Frankly, this convoluted hour sent me scurrying to NBC's website looking for clarification about the plot, but--whew, what a relief--there really isn't much of one.

Broad isn't automatically bad, of course, but broad and woefully unfunny are a pretty deadly combination.

There's much to be said for the major networks spicing their lineups with something more than just reality shows during the summer, but if Meteor represents the best they have to offer, Armageddon, come on down!

Posing aside, Jules and Paul are probably right about lacking a censor button, but even 2,500 miles away, I couldn't find the "off" button fast enough.

Having endured two installments, it's frankly hard to imagine anybody wading through Big Lake 98 more times.

A soap opera where the acting is worse than most soap operas, and the "characters" keep constantly saying how perfect, fabulous and eligible they are.

Sitting through an entire episode finally felt like more of an ordeal than fun, especially weathering Cruickshank's litany of jokes (the series credits eight writers, including the three exec producers) about what a slut she is.

Everyone responsible can no doubt mouth the customary psychobabble about moving along the healing process, but that's clearly not what this is all about.

Once you get past the initial idea, though, there’s nothing there, since Vinny --the ostensible brains of the outfit--has virtually nothing to say.

Besides being insulting to any woman who may not look like a runway model, The Bachelor, hosted by Chris Harrison, is just plain boring. Show supposedly takes the high road from more sexed-up fare like "Temptation Island," but the result is that ABC has promo'd the show with quick cuts of babes in bathing suits and bedside make-out sessions. It's as if the network bankrolled a brothel and positioned cameras to catch the action. [25 Mar 2002, p.34]

"Modern Men" actually leaves you hoping [Bruckheimer] will revert to bigscreen form and blow something up.

The show's mired in stiff dialogue, clunky voiceover narration, uneven performances and indifferently staged action sequences.

The scripts are sophomoric, the acting wooden and the direction uninspired -- [the] show starts so thin it must have been on the South Beach Diet for months.

Essentially, this pancake-flat debut amounted to a 30-minute "Weekend Update" segment devoted entirely to Hollywood, filled with about three minutes of actual comedy.

"Category 7" blows and then some.

All told, it's "The Simple Life" with less substance, featuring youths that have clearly studied both the reality TV manual and "The OC" to perfect their "characters."

The acting generally ranges from over the top to flat-out bad.

Painfully familiar and virtually laugh-free, the series has one character with potential, but beyond that, it's hard to imagine Fox won't be yelling "last call" relatively soon.

An awkward pairing of adult relationship drama and procedural cop show, "Standoff" bombs on both counts.

This is strictly a cheap knockoff for those who can't survive a summer hiatus from housewives married to, and often equipped with, oversized boobs.

Passable production values, naughtiness about as salty as an issue of Maxim and some pretty stiff acting provide modest camp allure, but it's hard to imagine either new series qualifying as a so-bad-it's-good guilty pleasure.

The show falls thuddingly flat, feeling tired, gratuitous in its dirty doings and a trifle narcissistic.

A half-hour vanity project that proves HBO can not only be TV, but bad TV at that.

It all feels wan, tired and painfully predictable, with scant dimension for either Gedrick or Wahlberg to mine beyond the tough-guy sneers.

As for Surnow, in a sense, he's added a program to his resume that neatly dovetails with "24" -- demonstrating that stiff, uninspired comedy isn't exactly torture; it's just not much fun.

An utterly bland exercise--a slacker buddy comedy with a more elaborate makeup budget in which the protagonists happen to be cavemen.

It's a new twist on an old-fashioned anthology, though the endings are only vaguely macabre or surprising, while the murders and sexual situations are trashy but too poorly executed to qualify as titillating.

"Lil' Bush," like so much on Comedy Central other than "The Daily Show"/"Colbert Report" hour, possesses all the finesse of Gallagher with a watermelon.

Wipeout, a knockoff of a U.S. spoof of a Japanese show (how meta is that?), feels mean-spirited and heavy on rim shots.

The Japanese fascination with absurd stunts (dressing two players as huge bugs and having them splat against a wall, for example) and public humiliation as good TV fun has a rather acrid taste stripped of cultural context.

The Last Templar is nobody's idea of a seaworthy miniseries.

Mostly, this is poor man's Farrelly brothers material, without the explosive wit or glee that would make the raunch irresistible, if not palatable to watch while eating.